The Patrolman - 36

 

 

36.

 

 

 

The pawnbroker hadn’t lied.

The Bamboo Room was where he said it would be - Central Avenue & 42nd Street. Next to the Hotel Dunbar. Around the corner, but still the very same building.

Mr. Slate had parked across the street, chewing the end of a dead cigar, taking it in.

It looked like a place that didn’t let up. It was a red brick with a white trim. A nightclub jammed up against the side of the hotel. He couldn't imagine getting any sleep with noise like that on the other side of the wall. Then again, what if that was the point? You went to the hotel if you scored? A maroon tent drooped over the Bamboo Room’s entrance like some fancy steak joint.

He rolled the car past it, slow, turned around, and parked across the street. Cars passed on both sides. Two brothers hauled beer barrels off a truck for another joint. Central Avenue was known as "Brown Broadway" because there were that many jazz joints. Despite the War, life kept moving. An old man gnawed a sandwich down to the wax paper and lobbed it into a new trashcan. "Stow It, Don’t Throw It!" the sign said. Nobody paid it much mind.

Mr. Slate lit up the other half of his cigar, got out, and took a walk. The power lines hanging overhead buzzed like hornets. That Central Avenue smell lingered. Sweat, garbage, and a whiff of reefer. It smelled like a hundred hard lives struggling to make it through the day. He’d smelled worse. Hell, he’d lived worse.

He crossed the street and circled the building, coming up on that red awning again. He stood there watching, thinking. Was there any truth to what the pawnbroker had said? This white girl disappearing? It wasn’t the safest part of town, sure, but folks didn’t just vanish out here. Not without nobody noticing. This wasn't the Southland.

Come to think of it, he’d read about the Bamboo Room before. If he remembered it right, a Negro ran the joint. Rich type. The name wasn’t coming to him, but he remembered that it was colored-owned and colored-run. A place to catch music, a little tail, a place to get yourself in trouble if you stayed long enough. Some of the biggest Negro artists in the country played here. Singers and bandleaders made pit stops if they were passing through. Even so, there was nothing suspicious about the club.

He stubbed out the cigar, tucked it back in the pack, and stood there thinking about Nora. A beautiful girl like that around here was bound to get noticed. Where the hell was she at?

Mr. Slate turned as an awkward-looking Negro limped toward the entrance. Overalls, a cap, carrying something rolled up under his arm and a bucket. Looked like he belonged to the building, if not the club. He crossed behind him and said, 'Hey.'

The man turned, wary. 'You need somethin’, brother?'

'You work here?'

'I guess. What do you want?'

'Anyone else here right now?'

'Guess it's only me.'

He was laying the sarcasm on a little thick. Mr. Slate didn’t bite. The man stuck up a sign and pasted over it. Some band he didn't know. 'They won't be loading in yet,' he said. 'Not till later. Try the lot over on Avalon. If they ain’t nobody here, that’s where they’ll be.'

Mr. Slate gave him a nod and moved on. The man called something after him - something about money - but he didn’t stop walking.

43rd stretched long and cracked. The asphalt was so worn that the historic cobblestones showed through. Heat waves shimmered off the sidewalk. He passed it block by block till he came up on Avalon. On his side, a fenced-in storage place. Across the street, only a dirt lot and a car too fancy to be from this part of town parked on it. He wouldn’t have looked twice, except for the crowd. A dozen people easy, lined up in the sun like they were waiting on bread.

Somebody selling something.

He went for the crosswalk as a police car rolled by. The two white cops inside slowed and stared at him. His heart skipped, but he didn’t flinch. It was fine. They didn’t know him.

He joined the end of the line. Nobody spoke. Shifting feet and sweating. A few minutes passed, and the man at the car stood up and said, 'Show's over.' He was a skinny little bastard in a slick suit and brown-and-white spats. 'Back same time tomorrow.'

The crowd groaned as one, disappointed but not surprised. Dazed, hollow-eyed. They knew the score.

Hopheads.

Mr. Slate watched them scratch and shuffle off. One girl wearing a yellow dress looked around Nora’s age. Pretty, except for the shaking.

He didn’t move.

The dealer slammed the trunk and noticed him. 'You high or somethin'? I said we closed now.'

He stepped forward, pulling his shoulders back till he felt the stretch down his spine. Made him look taller. Meaner.

'I ain’t buying,' he said.

'Then what you want, motherfucker? Ain't running no soup kitchen.'

Skinny had a rat face. Big nose, big shoes, big mouth. The kind of punk who thought the expensive suit did all the talking.

Mr. Slate took another step. He saw inside the car. A neat stack of Bibles sat on the seat, too crisp to have been read. That alone raised more questions than it answered.

'I’m looking for a girl.'

'Ain’t we all?' Skinny grinned. 'I know a place fo' that.'

'Mexican girl,' he said. 'Pretty. Looks like she don't belong out here. You see her?'

Skinny’s grin got wider, exposing some nasty teeth. 'What’s it to you?'

'I’m worried about her.'

'You shouldn’t be. She got what she wanted. She’ll be back.'

There was a sound behind the car, and another man folded out of the passenger seat. Big and slow, like a sofa that had learned to walk.

'We got a problem?' Skinny asked.

Without blinking, he told them they didn't and went to take it on the arches.

'She was a pretty thing,' Skinny called after him. 'Real sweet. Our stuff’s that good. She’ll come back. And when she runs outta cash, I’ll pass her onto Moses here. He likes ‘em soft.'

The big man snorted like a horse after eating.

Mr. Slate started toward them.

But then Skinny flipped a switchblade and twirled it for show. 'There. I saw her. Now get the fuck outta here.'

He walked away. Every inch of him wanted to knock the little bastard’s teeth out. But he knew better. He needed to find Nora. She was somewhere out here. And if she'd already taken a wrong turn with what that skinny bastard was peddling, the clock was ticking.

By the time he got three blocks down, he had his mind made up. He was going to break into the Bamboo Room while it was still quiet. He hoped that sign-painting fool had moved on.

Back at the car, he popped the trunk and took out the crowbar. Then, from under the driver’s seat, he reached for the .32. The same one he used on Barclay. He checked the chamber, slid it into his waistband, and made a quiet promise to himself. After this, you drive out to the river and throw the gun as far out as you can.

He headed back toward the Bamboo Room and passed that trash can again. 'Stow It, Don’t Throw It.' Something foul attracted flies. Like a fish died and someone tried to cover the stench with perfume. Nauseating. He was nearing the entrance when he heard the soft rumble of an idling engine.

Skinny's car.

Mr. Slate turned his head, slow and easy, like a man looking into a store window. It was a kitchen shop - pots, pans, copper kettles he couldn’t afford and didn’t need. He stared through the glass long enough to catch the car in its reflection.

Moses lumbered inside the Bamboo Room.

Skinny stayed behind the wheel, engine running.

That was all he needed.

He slipped the .32 free and checked both shoulders. Nobody watching. He half-walked, half-jogged to the passenger door, and slid in like he belonged there. Before the punk could scream, Mr. Slate had him by the balls, twisting hard, with a .32 jammed into his cheekbone.

'Where is she?'

'I don’t know, man!'

'Look at me,' Mr. Slate said.

Skinny turned as much as he could, jaw shaking. 'I don’t know where she is,' he whimpered, and this time, it felt real. His face was bloodless. Some men break. Some lie. But when they’re staring down a gun and you’ve got their manhood in a vice, they usually tell the truth.

Mr. Slate let go and slid out.

He was halfway back to his car when Skinny’s voice echoed in his head - that filth he’d spewed. About Nora. About what Moses would do to her. Pass her around like a joint. It was true. If she ever came back here, they would. And if she didn’t, they'd find someone else just as lost. Just as soft.

Mr. Slate stopped walking and turned around.

Skinny was still in the driver’s seat trying to catch his breath.

He didn’t say a word. Just walked up, lifted the .32, and shot him twice behind the left ear. The glass spider-webbed. Skinny twitched once and laid still.  

He took one last look toward the red awning. No movement. No Moses. He jumped back in his car and peeled out east, tires screeching. Heading straight for the Los Angeles River.

 

© J. A. Stapleton 2025 - Image Source: Wikimedia Commons